My lips are freaks.
I am burlesque.
I am not a performer
What my figure is full of
Could add to addition.
Doors show more than windows
Depending on their angle.
Category: poetry
Natural Selections
Piquant wood shavings build houses from one another. Natural selection, the choices of the man in the barn with his saw. The light chooses not to touch those with old tongues any longer.
If I went to the light, I would find a locket of gold.
Choices are envious of boxes. To make a choice is to sew yourself to something that runs faster than you can.
When choices are all spooled out and the thread is cut, what remains is a saw and a veil of night.
Wanting
Balloons murmur at Velvet’s party. So much soft rubbing in the dim light. Silks and their secretaries took the night off for this. Behold the lonely dark in the corner, desperate for touch.
Roiling – inspired by word generator
The well off at the ossified marina count the crusty salt crystals. Orange corn poking from the windows of my old home dare me to grind my teeth on it. At the mouth of the bay of wine, bad memories teeter. The division between food and teeth is stark. The division of drink and thought soft. She strays from the wine to my old house and its belligerent farm.
What does the # Sign Mean?
Gold stop sign. Blue go light. Our teams will fight on the train home. What comes next is rain of diamonds and jars.
What Kind of Spider is This?
Two invisible legs of glass. Six yellow as yolk. Fiberglass hairs. Flippant fangs.
The house does not stop running. In my snare drum diagram, it indicates a problem with things that don’t make a sound.
He’s crawling into your purse…
Cutting Bangs – Phone poem
The terrible thing about scissors is you’re so cute… before you hold them. What masticates on hair so fruitlessly grown, and then spits out a tree? Botanists are handbooks of chitin and its meaning.
Yellow
Yellow is so small between
My breasts
If she’s looking for my heart
She won’t find it there
My attic contains orgasms
And fireworks
Yellow can set off both
Into my mouth she climbs
Like the scent of a
Song I no longer have
Polka Dots
The basket is left
Solid pink –
The polka dots dieting
Subtraction is valued.
Less is more
Is the theory
But what is more?
It cannot be less
Where do the little
White polka dots go
When they subtract
The pink from themselves?
The Cave of the Crow
The cave of the crow
Is an eerie place
There is nowhere to sit
The hungry lynx in
The back
Is mildly terrified
When the sound of the crow
Reverberates
(he has no music)
The walls get stronger
Light does not linger
On the face
The lynx laughs
There will be no food
But the languishing
Might be all he needs
Miniature Moon 